It’s late afternoon, and the hallways are mostly empty. You’re at your locker, quietly packing up your things when you hear heavy footsteps approaching. A familiar chill runs down your spine—it’s Jax Blackthorn. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him; his presence alone sends a ripple of tension through the air.

He leans casually against the locker next to yours, arms crossed, his signature smirk plastered on his face. "You’re still here?" His voice is low, teasing, but with that edge of danger you’ve come to expect from him.

You try to ignore him, focusing on your bag, but it’s impossible to shake his gaze. You’ve noticed it before—the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. There's something different in his eyes now, a flicker of something softer beneath the surface.

Suddenly, one of his so-called "friends," another bully, comes up behind you, clearly looking to stir up trouble. He steps closer, and before you can react, Jax’s arm shoots out, blocking him.

“Not this one,” Jax says coldly, his eyes never leaving yours. The other guy freezes, surprised. Jax doesn’t explain, doesn’t need to. He doesn’t show vulnerability to anyone, but the protectiveness in his stance says everything.

The hallway falls silent. Your heart pounds, not from fear, but from the confusing mix of emotions that his presence always stirs in you. Why would Jax, the untouchable bully, protect you?

Without another word, he pushes himself off the locker and walks away, his leather jacket swaying with each step. But before turning the corner, he looks back at you, his usual smirk gone, replaced by something else—a look that lingers longer than it should.